Salt
by CB Wyrdley
Summary: One shot. A fateful meeting.


Salt

a xxxHOLiC fanfiction by Wyrdley

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Notes: PG for angst. One-shot.

Disclaimer: I do not own xxxHOLiC. CLAMP does.

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Sometimes, he wonders exactly why he cares about his future. He thinks ahead and in the end, he dies. How, precisely, he tries not to think about. He feels like his life is a non-stop horror film, what with the ghosts and the demons and the chase scenes. He hasn't encountered a psycho bent on his painful last moments, though, and that's a little encouraging.

He finds things to do whenever his thoughts take this darker turn, trying to distract himself from the unpleasant knot that settles behind his heart, somewhere in-between his lungs, and the throb of pressure in his forehead. It doesn't hurt, that feeling, but it isn't nice.

So he cooks or does his homework or runs a load of laundry and hangs it out to dry, lingering in the afternoon sun for just a bit, where it's warm. He hopes there aren't any monsters outside, because he likes the outdoors and he hides in his room way too much. He lowers his expectations, though, and just enjoys the nice weather and the scent of clean sheets. He can be happy that way.

He has a coin purse in one of his pockets, the one that doesn't have his pocket watch in it. It has metal clasps that snap together and it's made of a reddish it-isn't-really-leather kind of material. A ghost that he used to climb trees with when he was in elementary school once told him how salt could drive evil spirits away and he's made a point of carrying a bit of it with him ever since. He uses it more than he would like, but it's better than not having it at all.

He stands in front of his old mirror, which is a little foggy on the upper-left side, so it looks a bit like he's underwater. He has his new uniform on, which is completely black, except for the eight brass buttons on the front and the white trim at the wrists and collar. His hair is messy, of course, but a wet comb doesn't work and he refuses to put gel on it because that would be vain, plus the smell makes him sneeze. He holds his briefcase in one hand and his antique watch in the other, and glances at the time and decides to leave a little early for his first day of high school.

He lets himself out of his room and makes his way outside, where the sun was just starting to warm the air a bit. There aren't any clouds at all and there is a bird singing somewhere that he can barely hear above the hum of traffic. It's a lovely day.

He hopes he will see the day's end, then squashes the thought down. He grips the coin purse in his pocket and lowers his expectations.

The walk is peaceful, at first, but it doesn't last. (He thinks he's probably the only fifteen-year-old with a will. Not that he has anyone to leave his meager belongings _to_.) There's an evil spirit lurking at the train crossing where that lady suicided a few years ago, oozing as it floats through the air. The crossing is open, so people are passing through its aura, leaving nasty trails of supernatural sickness in their wakes, all unaware.

The boy grinds to a halt, clutching his briefcase and lunchbox nervously. Maybe it won't notice him. He starts to detour around the crossing, hoping to escape.

The spirit abruptly turns towards him as if he's shocked it with electricity and he starts running, bumping other people out of his way. He ignores their angry outbursts as he dodges into traffic and makes cars screech to a stop, legs pumping as hard as they can.

He would make an excellent sprinter, if he ever dared to try out for the track team. He won't though, because being around other people increases the chances of being found out. He doesn't want people to think he's crazy, because he's not.

He's not crazy.

Not yet.

He hazards a glance behind him as the gates of the school loom ahead of him. The spirit is wriggling its way through the air, eagerly following where he leads. He runs around the corner of the school building; it's early and there isn't anyone around yet. If he can find a spot where he can pull his coin purse out-

He makes another turn and suddenly his legs are tangled up and he's airborne for not even half a second and his face is painfully impacting the grassy ground.

Panicking, he crawls to his feet, groping for his salt. His eyes search for the spirit, but he can't see it; something touches his arm and he chokes. He spins around, flinging the salt at the monster.

It curses at him. "Hey, are you retarded?"

He stares. There is a boy standing in front of him, brushing salt out of his face. He's tall and lean and his lips are grimacing. His eyes are shut and the runner wants the gates of hell to open beneath him _right now_, because there is no way he can rationalize to a complete stranger why he just threw salt in his face.

"Erm," he mumbles, but the other boy is unimpressed with this response and manages to rub the salt out of his eyes. He looks at the runner. His eyes are startlingly light, like ruddy suns, but… They shed no brightness; he feels like his feet are rooted to the ground.

He senses nothing from this boy, and does not even realize it. It frightens him. He can't run away, so he yells instead:

"You shouldn't have been standing there! It's so early, why should I need to watch out for loiterers like you!"

He's managed to surprise the empty boy and those blank eyes are suddenly framed by irritated eyebrows. "Why should you throwing things in my face be my fault? You ran over me, not the other way around." His voice is level and cool.

He's feeling less afraid now and draws himself up, glaring at that cold expression. "Just forget it, jerk," he spits out, turning to locate his fallen bags.

"What were you running away from?" The question is dispassionate, almost idle.

"Who says I was running! Bug off!"

"I saw you. You were definitely trying to escape something."

"It's none of your business!" He picks up his briefcase, then sees his lunchbox on the ground. The way it has fallen makes him frown, because the lid looks ajar inside the cloth the box is wrapped in.

"And what made you think that throwing salt at it would make it go away?" the calm voice continued. "Was it a monster?"

The boy who sees spirits jerks his gaze to the speaker. That face shows no kind of reaction at all. _"What did you say?"_

"Salt is used to ward off evil."

He doesn't want to speak to this person anymore. "Go away. Leave me alone."

"It's just a bit strange."

He spins towards the blank one, spittle flying from his mouth: _"GO THE HELL AWAY AND LEAVE ME ALONE, BASTARD!" _He drops his things and aims a punch at the boy, who sidesteps it and brings his arm up in guard stance. His face remains still, but his lightless yellow eyes are colder than ice.

He swings again and the boy knocks his fist aside like it's a fly. He reaches out and seizes the angry boy under the arm, trying to hold him still, but his captive will have none of it. An elbow to the ribs and he grunts, releasing him and backing up warily.

The boy who sees spirits is enraged. He doesn't want to back down from this disconcerting person with the stupid blank expression. He charges at the boy, who braces himself for the impact—

But the charge never comes, because suddenly he's being caught by two other people. He shudders in the teachers' grips, his anger lingering, but fright beginning to overwhelm him. "Just leave me the hell alone…" he gasps out, and becomes still.

He doesn't really pay attention to the adults, just watches as one of them guides the blank boy away. The teacher is trying to say something to him, but he's in no state to listen. His lunch is ruined, his uniform is stained from his impact on the ground, and someone nearly discovered his secret.

He covers his mouth with one hand, feeling ill. There's still salt on his fingers and it tastes bitter on his tongue.

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Fin.


End file.
